


Epilogue

by StAnni



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Post-Break Up, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2018-11-06
Packaged: 2019-08-19 15:24:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16537175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StAnni/pseuds/StAnni
Summary: Just less than four years ago they weren’t so weathered.  Back then they were both intricate with empathies, that has since been smoothed away by hard truths and betrayals, back then there were still grey areas - and he would have confronted her, drawn her to him, fiercely demanded her fealty – and she would have demanded the same from him.  The dance without end.  Now, as crossed swords, they are forged, and simply at odds.





	Epilogue

When he sees Selina, it is two years later, at some benefit to rebuild the ports of Gotham.  
When he sees her, her eyes flick away from his – having seen him first - to the glass of wine in her silk-gloved hands, and then momentarily unfocused into the crowd.

After two years of silence, the sound of the world rushes into one room.

He makes a quiet excuse to Rachel, whispering to her that he will be right back and looks up just as Selina slips out of the balcony door, into the night outside.

The air on the balcony is cold and he walks out, already looking down into the street below – believing she would have jumped, vanished into the abyss as he did those years ago. But, perhaps not surprisingly, she is there, quiet, in the moonlight, her curls moving in the breeze. 

“Selina.”

She looks at him, her face unreadable in the dark. She is wearing a dress that he knows she would not have picked out for herself – murder red and sleek, to the floor, with thin black ribbons crossing her alabaster shoulders. Her hair is longer, wilder and he remembers the silky feel of the gold brown curls between his fingers - the weight of her head on his chest. 

He doesn’t move closer, he doesn’t dare to. 

She speaks and the cold air blooms around her like a spell. “So you’re back.” 

It’s been almost two years since he has heard her voice and it grips his heart instantly. He puts his hands in his pockets, trying to seem composed, trying to still the thunder inside his mind, his heart.

“For a while now.”

She nods and her eyes, emerald as all the lies she has ever told, drift away from him, back to the night sky beyond the balcony. She is distracted. He waits, and when she speaks again she doesn’t look at him at first. 

“So, that’s Rachel?”

Her voice is even but there is a waiver there - a dangerous ripple current underneath the calm veneer. 

She looks at him and he can see it, the flicker of challenge - the invitation to their usual game, the back and forth, the familiarity – the intimacy of their shared past.

It takes all of his willpower to veer away to safety. “Did you come here with anyone?”

He knows she did. Someone else had to pick out that dress.  
At first she doesn’t answer. And before she does, she finally looks away “Carl.” 

Dormant possessiveness snaps thick and rises – he forgets himself in a split-second and his voice is gruff with jealousy “Carl Logan?” 

Selina glances up at him, surprised, at his retort, and almost without guile.  
Almost.

“What? You don’t like cops all of a sudden?” 

Her amusement is intoxicating.

Caught, he turns away from her, contemplating heading back inside, grabbing Rachel’s hand, making some excuse to leave. He should never have followed Selina outside. 

As if she can read his mind and sense his guilt, Selina looks away from him, turns against the rail and with the cold air raising the fine hairs on her neck, she tugs her gloves. She gives him an out – the safety of his moral-high ground he can clamber to, and she gives it to him, the same way she gave it to him at their very last encounter – voice dull with a lie.

“Carl’s okay.” 

Just less than four years ago they weren’t so weathered. Back then they were both intricate with empathies, that has since been smoothed away by hard truths and betrayals, back then there were still grey areas - and he would have confronted her, drawn her to him, fiercely demanded her fealty – and she would have demanded the same from him. The dance without end. Now, as crossed swords, they are forged, and simply at odds.

“He’s dirty.” His voice is dull too, his with truth.

A second stretches long between them. 

“Gotham is practically post-apocalyptic, Bruce. Everyone is dirty.” There is a smirk in her voice – and it sends another charge through his veins, coiling tight around his heart, biting deep. He steels himself.

“Not me.”

There are no grey areas anymore. 

She sighs a plume of pale crystal as the slick red of her dress moves past him, back towards the light of the party inside. He closes his eyes against the sound, remembering the taste of her sigh against his open mouth – her lips black as blood in the dark. 

“No, Bruce. Not you.”


End file.
